


Bang The War Drums

by thequeergiraffe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Multi, Plot twists ahead, Rating is temporary as this may go smutty in the future, Soldier!John, mild depictions of violence, prince!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson wasn't the sort of man who found mingling at parties easy or enjoyable. He was a soldier, first and foremost, and a doctor beyond that. Civilian life had never suited him, not really. The only times John truly felt alive and whole, as though he were completely in his element, were the times when he was wrist-deep in someone else's blood with bullets whizzing overhead and soldiers shouting in the background.</p><p>And he had single-handedly assured that he would never feel like that again.<br/>------------------------------------<br/>One shot was all it took to end the civil war that tore England apart under the rule of the Holmes empire. One shot, delivered from John's rifle, and everything changed. But while John was expecting a life of boredom and fancy parties, what he got was an improbable friendship with a slightly mad prince, a tour of London's underbelly, the familiarity of being shot at almost constantly, and a good deal of intrigue.</p><p>(Alternating POV.)<br/>---</p><p>ON HIATUS UNTIL DECEMBER.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes wandered through the gilded ballroom with a look of distinct distaste marring his aristocratic features. Another fancy party; it seemed that there had been little else happening since the end of the war only one month previous. Frankly he found social engagements hateful (and parties, most especially smarmy parties held at the palace, were the worst) but after several long conversations with the skull he kept in his bedroom, he decided that perhaps a distraction could be of some use. Still, he loathed the cheery atmosphere, the flirty women (and men, though they were much more furtive with their glances) and the drink. Disgusting.

Bored, Sherlock decided to do what he always did when he needed a pick-me-up: he found his brother, Mycroft, and wove through the crowd, stopping at Mycroft's elbow. "I see the end of the war has put an end to your diet," Sherlock said, his voice pleasant.

Mycroft didn't quite roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. "And I see it has done nothing to advance your manners," Mycroft yawned, eyes skimming the crowd.

Sherlock followed his gaze blandly. He recognized nearly everyone: peers, foreign royalty, knights and ambassadors. There were footmen in stiff livery floating through the empty spaces between paired-off dancers and groups of chatting men and women, offering drinks and "nibbles" with polite smiles. Sherlock sneered at them. Nothing new ever happened at one of these ridiculous fetes; perhaps he would go up and entertain his skull with stories of the study he was conducting on various types of pollen.

But then his eyes settled on someone new, someone he'd never seen before. The man was short, his hair ashy blonde and cropped close. That he was a military captain was just as obvious from his posture and bearing as it was from his starched and apparently uncomfortable uniform; Sherlock didn't need to look at his medals and epaulets to know he was recently involved in combat and still uncomfortable in a civilian atmosphere. He had been wounded, Sherlock noticed. There was something awkward about the way he held his left shoulder. Interesting. "Who is he?" Sherlock asked, looking over at his brother.

Mycroft smirked. "Captain John Watson," he said, looking back at the man, who was frowning at his champagne flute. "Handsome, I suppose, if one prefers the more rugged sort."

Sherlock made a face. Watson didn't look terribly rugged to him; he looked equal parts childish and impossibly old, his face weathered but expressive, friendly but closed off. He looked like a man of contradictions. "A simple captain," Sherlock said, rather than giving voice to his observations. "What is he doing here?"

"A guest of Mummy's," Mycroft smiled. "Sherlock, honestly. I know you don't follow these things but I expected you to at least recognize the name." Sherlock's bemused and agitated expression seemed to propel him onward: "Captain Watson is to thank for our return to peace," Mycroft said, looking amused. "He delivered the Final Shot."

Ah. Sherlock brought his stare back to the man, who sipped his champagne gingerly and seemed to find the taste lacking. Of course. That was why Mummy had invited him. Sherlock was staring at the man who had slain his father.

x

John Watson wasn't the sort of man who found mingling at parties easy or enjoyable. He was a soldier, first and foremost, and a doctor beyond that. Civilian life had never suited him, not really. The only times John truly felt alive and whole, as though he were completely in his element, were the times when he was wrist-deep in someone else's blood with bullets whizzing overhead and soldiers shouting in the background.

And he had single-handedly assured that he would never feel like that again.

It wasn't that John was displeased that the war was over. He'd lost a lot of friends to those brutal combats and he loved his Country, loved it fiercely and whole-heartedly. John hadn't spent his childhood dreaming of war and warm bullets and the screams of dying men. Still, it was hard for John to believe that he would never again crawl through filth and blood to save a life, that he would never again field-dress a gun wound or fire his rifle at an enemy. He didn't even have a rifle anymore. All he had was the little (illegal) Browning he kept in the drawer of his bedside table in the fancy suite the Queen had set him up in when everything was over.

Over. That was certainly one way of looking at it.

The worst of it was that John hadn't even meant to kill the King and end the bloody conflict that strange, chilly day one month prior. He was a medic, after all, not part of the elite team that had stormed the enemy fortress, tucked away in a windswept valley in the Scottish highlands. But he had heard that sound, that unmistakable sound that a man makes when he's been dealt a fatal blow, and he couldn't stay back anymore whatever his orders. So he'd stormed the damn castle himself, although "stormed" wasn't the most appropriate word, perhaps. More like "strolled in entirely unnoticed, somehow". The fact that the King had rounded a corner at the same time as John, that they had fired their weapons at the same moment, that John's aim had been truer, that the war had ended in that moment unknown to everyone around them…well, none of that had been expected.

And when he woke up in hospital to find himself famous and enormously wealthy, with his surgeon's hand ruined by nerves and his admittedly shabby rugby game forever destroyed by the twisted flesh of his mutilated shoulder…well, that hadn't been expected either.

The boredom, though, that came with peacetime: John wasn't at all surprised by that.

He sighed and took another sip from his champagne glass, wishing it was something stronger and significantly less expensive. John had never been much for champagne. He was wondering how early he could leave and head back to his rooms (the fact that he'd been invited to stay at court indefinitely still made him feel a bit light-headed) when the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to prickle. John knew that feeling. He was being watched.

Sweeping his gaze around, he met eyes with a man he instantly recognized. The young prince, Sherlock Holmes. He looked uncomfortably like his father, John realized with a jolt. The last time he had seen eyes like that, they were looking at him down the barrel of a handgun.

As if there were some sort of magnetic pull between them, each man took a few slow, cautious steps forward. It was strange, the way John's adrenaline had kicked in, making the noise of the ballroom fade away until the only sounds were the hammering of his heart, the steady in-out of his breath, and the soft sound of his expensive Italian-leather loafers clicking against the marble floor. Whatever odd spell drew them together seemed to hold even after they'd finally met, standing close enough that John could smell the other man's cologne and had to tip his head up a bit to meet his fierce, blue-grey eyes.

"Captain Watson," he said (purred, even; there was a quality to his voice that put John in mind of thunder in July, brilliant summer storms that lasted for days on end). "I believe you are owed my most heartfelt congratulations. You've done your Country a great service." There was something incredibly insincere about his tone, but not malicious; it was as though he didn't care in the slightest whether John had shot his father or not, that he would have been indifferent either way.

"Thank you, Your Highness," John said, a little awkward for all that he'd studied how to greet royalty. He bowed slightly, careful not to wince at the twinge of discomfort in his bad shoulder, and then did wince at the look of pure amusement on the young prince's face. No doubt he had buggered that entirely.

"No," the prince said, his mouth twitching at one side, "you did well. Very textbook. I just…" He chuckled, looked away. "I find my own distaste for all this pomp and circumstance echoed very clearly on your face. It's refreshing."

John flushed. "I…" He was at a complete loss. Surely it would be rude to agree? But then, surely it would be even worse to be dishonest? "I'm afraid you're completely correct," he said after a moment. "I'm much better on the battlefield than I am in the ballroom."

The prince seemed to find that equally amusing. "I see. War is its own sort of dance, I suppose."

Despite himself, John grinned. It was so strange, looking into those bright, gunmetal eyes that were so much like the King's and seeing friendliness where John kept expecting murderous intent. "Yes," John agreed, still smiling. "I suppose it is."

For a moment the prince only stared out him, eyes still sparkling with amusement, but then he leaned in close and whispered, "I should rather like to see you dance, Captain Watson." A shiver ran down John's spine as the man straightened and sighed, "But alas, we're stuck with this." He gestured to the party with his nose crinkled.

"I could be amenable to this sort of dancing," John said, unsure of what exactly drove him to do so. "Assuming the company was interesting enough."

The prince laughed out loud. "And does mine satisfy?"

John nodded, fighting back a smile. "It'll do."

"Very well," the prince said, holding out his hand. "Shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Captain John Watson was, as it turned out, an appalling bad dancer. The little man had the strangest tendency to try and lead, despite being a half-foot shorter than Sherlock and completely unaware of the correct steps. Sherlock, strangely, didn't mind. The fight for dominance was unlike his squabbles with his brother or the quiet pettiness of court; instead it was…fun.

Fun? That wasn't a word with which Sherlock often found himself familiar. And yet here he was, spinning around the ballroom with a pint-sized soldier trying to squash his toes with every step, and he couldn't stop himself grinning.

It would have been alarming, if he weren't too busy enjoying himself to consider it.

In fact, it was with distinct displeasure that he handed Captain Watson off to one of Mycroft's pawn-handlers only thirty minutes into their acquaintance. He was "needed elsewhere", the poor man, probably for a quick jaunt around the press junket. Sherlock despised the Country's journalists and their willingness to dictate Mycroft's every word so long as he sufficiently lined their pockets. It was Mycroft that had leapt on the idea of turning Captain Watson into a legend. And if Sherlock was any judge (and generally he was) the hero himself found the whole thing as loathsome as Sherlock did.

Watson, flushed from dancing and smiling up at Sherlock apologetically, shrugged and said, "Thanks for the dance, mate. Er, Your Highness. All good things come to an end, as they say." He cleared his throat, and then nodded and shuffled off with Mycroft's man, peeking back at Sherlock once and seeming- what, embarrassed? Why?- when he noticed Sherlock was watching him go.

Sherlock found his own reaction to the man fascinating. The city was filled to the brim with broken men-at-arms, wounded from war and brimming with heroic pride. Why should this one be any different? Was he different? Yes, of course, that was hardly a question. Sherlock disliked almost everyone with whom he came into contact, and yet he found his time with the captain had been completely insufficient. He wanted- needed- more data. More time. Just…more.

He shook away the thought with a small, unhappy laugh. It didn't matter, really. Watson was one of Mycroft's pawns, willing or no, and Sherlock wouldn't be permitted anywhere near the man again, he was sure. Sherlock allowed himself one wistful glance at the scuffs on his shoes (left from Watson's ever-clumsy feet) before banishing all thoughts of the man from his mind for the rest of the evening.

x

Night fell. Sherlock was infinitely glad for the silence of his rooms, not because he savored the quiet (in actuality he found too much quiet rather hateful) but because it signaled the beginning of  _his_  time. Mycroft could steal his days and fill them with rubbish all he wanted, Sherlock was in no position to prevent that, but Sherlock's nights were all his own. Mycroft had never tried to stop him; perhaps he was clever enough to realize that too short a leash would make for an ornery dog.

Oddly, Sherlock found no peace in his old resentful ruminations as he tugged on his cloak and armed himself with the small dagger he'd had since childhood. Tonight this part of his ritual failed to satisfy. Perhaps because his thoughts refused to stay in line; they wandered, slowly at first but soon more rapidly and fervently, to Captain Watson. Why should Sherlock care what the man was doing at this hour? He was near twenty years older than Sherlock himself. Undoubtedly he was sleeping. But that thought didn't help at all; Sherlock found himself, as he fiddled with the clasp of his cloak in front of the mirror, wondering if Watson's face was so expressive in sleep as it was in waking. Would Sherlock be able to read his dreams in the lines of his face?

Idiotic. That's what Sherlock was being. And sentimental, which he considered a much graver crime. He made a derisive noise at his reflection and turned away. Enough thinking about something he couldn't have. It was night, his time, and he intended to use it.

x

Sherlock had been breaking out of the palace for years. The entirety of his life, practically. He'd never had any difficulty before.

Which is why it was doubly surprising to find himself clattering into a small but solid form in what had always been a very abandoned and empty corridor. He made a certain undignified sound that might have been "oomf" and landed, a bit sorely, on his bottom, the cold flagstones stinging on contact.

"Sorry!" Sherlock knew that voice, and once he'd been disentangled from his hood he was mildly gratified to see his initial estimation had been correct. Captain Watson. The poor man blundered on, his cheeks pink. "I didn't mean- I mean I didn't see you there and- right, sorry. Let me…here, I'll help you up."

Sherlock took his hand and climbed to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went. He eyed Watson curiously, taking in the tiredness around the eyes and the rumpled state of his hair, combined with the fact that he was dressed in night-clothes and, to Sherlock's amusement, barefooted. "Captain Watson," he said, allowing a trace of his amusement to show in his voice, "the clock has chimed twelve. I would have expected you to be in bed."

"Sleep does not come easy to me," Watson said, the formality of his tone suggesting the topic was not one he cared to pursue. "And you, Your Highness? You seem to be dressed for…" His eyes narrowed subtly. "Are you…are you  _sneaking_ out of the palace?"

Whatever Sherlock had expected him to say, it wasn't that. The boldness of his question forced an honest answer from Sherlock's lips unbidden. "Yes," he said, and then blinked. "I, um. Yes." By the Gods, what was happening? Sherlock flipped his hood back up, wincing at his lack of eloquence.

It was Watson's turn to look amused. "No kidding," he said, fighting a smile. "Right. Well…I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"

No threats to turn him in, no unwanted questions or veiled promises of blackmail. Who was this man? "You could come," Sherlock suggested, shocking himself for the thousandth time that day. "If you wanted."

Watson whistled. "What, and risk this little operative of yours? Recon is no place for an old man," he grinned.

"It's nothing like that," Sherlock said, strangely flattered. "I just wanted to take the air."

"I know you Holmes men," said Watson, wriggling his bare toes against the cool floor. "The air won't be enough for you. Soon you'll want the land and sea, and the heavens after that." He glanced up at Sherlock, suddenly aghast. "I'm sorry, Your Highness; I've spoken out of turn."

"No, it's-" Sherlock paused, thrown. No one had ever spoken to him so bluntly. "It's fine," he said, truthfully. The man was filled to the brim with surprises, it seemed.

"Right, well…" Watson rubbed the back of his neck. "If we're going outside, I'll need to change clothes."

Sherlock smiled, wide and authentic. "I think my schedule will allow for that, Captain."

x

The captain's chosen style of dress should have appalled Sherlock, for all that he'd grown up wearing the finest silks and dressed by the finest tailors, but there was something pleasant about his simple trousers, his cotton jumper, and the practical boots he wore and which Sherlock recognized as military-issue. As he turned to close the door Sherlock recognized the subtle but apparent bulge of a firearm nestled against the small of the ex-soldier's back and he couldn't fight off the grim satisfaction the sight gave him. London, in all her dark beauty, had never frightened Sherlock before. But that didn't mean she never tried.

They made quick work of their journey, reaching the palace walls almost as quickly as though Sherlock had been alone. John seemed bemused but acceptant of their route, the quick dash through servants' quarters and the occasion leap from one rooftop to the next. He took it all in stride, following Sherlock with a nimbleness that the young prince respected. And of course, the reward for their labors was sweet. Even the air felt different, Sherlock thought, once they'd made it outside.

London, for Sherlock, was a very different place than it must have been for the common man. For one thing, he only ever left the forbidding walls of the palace at night. Aside from that, Sherlock wasn't keen on the typical modes of transportation. In the country they still used horse-and-buggy, or whatever ancient automobile they could piece together and suit up to run on vegetable oil or waste by-product, but in the city it was all rail-cars and light-shuttles, everything moving too quickly for Sherlock's tastes. He wanted to savor the city, to comb through her unplumbed depths. Zipping around at nearly the speed of light was for business-men and tourists, not disguised princes with the sunrise as a curfew.

"Gods' breath, it's good to be home," Watson sighed, looking at the city like a lost lover.

Something deep inside Sherlock stirred awake and he struggled to squash it down. "You've been out since your return home, surely? Or have they made a prisoner of you yet, Captain?"

Watson laughed. "I wouldn't go so far as to suggest that, Your Highness."

"Call me Sherlock." Impulsive. Possibly dangerous, if it became habit. But Sherlock was beginning to find the last remnants of formality between them stifling. If they could share this, the city and her beauty, then that was cause enough to drop the titles and simply be men.

The captain seemed to consider for a moment. Then he smiled, the movement small and almost shy. "All right, Sherlock. I'm John."

"John." There was an awkwardness to this. Sherlock had never tried to be friendly, nor had he ever desired a friend. He wasn't sure what to do next. Thankfully, the city seemed to be the answer. "Come. I'll show you what you've been missing, my dear fellow captive."


	3. Chapter 3

John was born in London, forty-four years prior. He suspected when he died his last breath would taste of smog and damp, the city leaving its final mark on his lungs. Even so, he'd never seen his home like this.

Sherlock (odd, that, to call the prince by his given name) led him through the old, disused tube lines and through wending alleys and smelly sewage routes. Their footsteps echoed over tile, clicked across cobblestone, and was muffled by mud. John caught sight of the Thames for an instant, for the first time in nearly seven years, glittering blackly in the feeble moonlight. It was good to be home.

As they walked, exploring this shadowy nook and that stinking, filthy cranny, they talked. Well, John talked. Sherlock mostly listened silently, laughing or humming here and there to indict his unwandering attention. Eventually, though, John hit on a topic Sherlock seemed irritated by and yet compelled to comment upon.

"It seems a little odd," John said, lifting his feet high to keep the mud from sucking off his boots, "that a prince should have need of sneaking out into the city at night. The Queen favors an iron rule, I know, but I didn't think such a thing extended to her own sons."

Sherlock scoffed and brushed aside some low-hanging vegetation, revealing a rough-hewn hole in the wall of the sewer. "My mother rules over nothing and no-one but her chambermaids," Sherlock said, shimmying up and into the hole. He turned around and helped John up, and they sat back catching their breath. "And even they report to Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" John rubbed something gritty and sticky from his face.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, waving him onwards. It was pitch black, wherever they were, and the cement rubble underfoot made the going slow and ungainly. "My brother, Mycroft. Or if you'd prefer, the  _true_ queen of England." They snickered over that for a moment, before John caught the meaning behind the words.

"You don't mean…" he said, and then trailed off. Even in the darkness, he wasn't willing to go so far as to commit treason. And that's what Sherlock was suggesting: a treasonous concept. He wouldn't even speak the words in his head; his self-preservation was too strong.

Sherlock, however, had no qualms. He chuckled darkly, the sound bouncing around the unlit space. "Yes, you catch on quickly. I will admit my brother played Mummy and Father against each other beautifully. The problem with arranged marriage, in my thoughts, is that it breeds no loyalty. A man and wife cannot function properly if there is no love between them, or so one imagines." They clambered over something tall and rough, the stones catching against John's skin and leaving him scratched, but once they were over it their travel was much easier, the ground smooth and unbroken beneath their feet. "At any rate, my father always resented my mother for her unwillingness to overlook his…habits, as they were. And my mother loathed my father for those very things. It was quite the simple thing for Mycroft to work to his advantage. And of course he picked Mummy to back; Mummy, after all, has no interest in politics. Mycroft is free to do as he pleases and Mummy can throw as many parties as she likes. A unanimous victory."

John's head was spinning. The civil war that had torn their country apart and made John who he was had been bloody, brutal, and unbelievably long. Seven years felt like a lifetime when one was constantly afraid for one's life. Seven years of battles, seven years of hardship. There were grammar-school children who had lived their entire lives knowing nothing but war. And for…what? A petty squabble between a man and his wife? The power play of a bored prince? John couldn't believe it.

Feeble light seemed to appear from nowhere, growing stronger as they walked. John could see his surroundings, dimly. It looked like they were in another abandoned tube station, although this one was plainly cavernous. The ceiling stretched above them so high John couldn't even make it out. He spent several minutes looking around, and so it was a small shock when his eyes fell on Sherlock only to discover that the man was watching him intently. "All right?" he asked, the air between them tense and uneasy.

Sherlock gave him a small half-smile. "I should be asking that of you. I'd forgotten how naïve you Loyalists can be."

"It wasn't naivety that led me to take up arms," John said, his voice quiet but intense. "It was fidelity. Anything less than that would have been a betrayal to my Country."

This time Sherlock's laugh was a hard, heartless thing. "My brother could have had my father slain in his sleep. Instead he chose to start a war. Do you think it was ever a matter of protecting the people? Don't be absurd. War is hard on the coffers, unquestionably, but it has a certain way of inciting people to relinquish their rights with cheerful ignorance. Anything to keep their children safe at night," he sneered. "That was all the war ever was. A game. Don't be a fool, John. You might have ensured a victory for our side, but both sides lost in the end."

"You dare-" John began, trembling with fury, but he was interrupted by a sound he had never expected to hear again outside a hunt or a trip to the range: a gunshot. Instantly all the fury in him vanished, replaced with the sharpness of mind that he'd known intimately in the last seven years. "Get down," he hissed, tugging Sherlock down behind one of the dust-coated benches. There were footsteps in the distance, slow and steady. John drew his gun.

"What-?" Sherlock muttered, but John shook his head and put his finger to his lips. He peeked around the side of the bench. The man was still too far away to make out in the poor lighting, but his shadow stretched before him, lean and long. John grinned. A lone gunman? He liked those odds just fine.

"You wanted to see me dance," John whispered, leaning in close to the prince. "Well, watch me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there anything you guys would like me to do to make the transition between POVs clearer or is it fine as is? The rest of the fic will probably follow the same pattern of one chapter in Sherlock's POV, one in John's, one in Sherlock's, and so on. I think the last chapter will be split, though, like the first one was. Also, someone asked me about setting. The answer is: post-apocalypse, hundreds of years in the future. So there will be some futuristic stuff, some archaic stuff, and some present-day stuff. Hope that helps.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything about John seemed to change in an instant. Sherlock watched him come up into a crouch, his body taut and his eyes sharp. John checked his gun, chambered a round. He looked brilliantly alive.

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off him.

"Stay back," John said, his voice hushed, but Sherlock had no intention of listening. As John crept towards the edge of the bench, Sherlock followed. John stopped, took a deep breath, and- in the space of a second- took aim and fired.

The room echoed with the shot.

There was a strangled cry and the thud of a body hitting the floor, and then silence. John had his head tipped back against the bench, but his gun was still at ready and his eyes were open. He was listening. Sherlock listened too, but there was really no need to strain, as became almost immediately clear.

"Not very nice, Captain Watson." Lilting voice; the man's words bounced around the old tube station, yet still managed to be soft. "That was one of my favorite henchman."

The snick of John chambering another round was nearly deafening in the silence that followed. "Ah-ah," the stranger said. Sherlock listened to his footsteps and put together a mental picture: small, but built differently from John. Something about the weight of his steps said  _delicate_. Upper-class, if his soles could be trusted. Carrying something substantially weighty on his right side. A gun? No; that tell-tale scrape of metal. A sword. Interesting. Throughout Sherlock's deductions, the man spoke: "Please, Captain, don't embarrass yourself. You have what, twelve rounds remaining? And yet I've thirteen men left."

"I'll take those odds," John said, his voice casual; friendly, even. He turned his head to Sherlock and met his eyes. "Run, now," he mouthed, "down to the line. Go."

"No," Sherlock hissed, as the newcomer laughed.

"Captain Watson," he said, a smile in his voice, "this has been fun. But unfortunately I'm on a very tight schedule. Governments to overthrow and people to kill. Men like me are in high demand these days."

"Seven men?" John asked, still pleasantly conversational. "I only hear you, friend. For your own safety, it might be best if they spoke up now."

"We're here," a voice called from somewhere towards their left. The lighting in the station was abysmal; despite Sherlock's best efforts to peek, he couldn't make out anyone at all. That didn't seem to hamper John. He took a breath, aimed, fired, and sat back against the bench so quickly Sherlock could have blinked and missed it entirely. The other man went down with a cry.

"Idiot!" their chatty new acquaintance swore. He sighed. "It's so hard to find good help. Captain, I have you to thank in part for that. You and your imbecilic comrades, those disgusting Loyalists." The man stopped walking, but even Sherlock could hear the soft patter of someone else's footsteps in the distance. This time it was less of a surprise; John took the shot and returned to cover before the man's body had even fallen.

The man in charge huffed impatiently. "You seem to be forgetting the slight problem of ammunition, Captain. Even if you drag this process out, you'll be left with no more bullets and two more enemies."

"Why don't you kill him?" Sherlock whispered.

"Because," John responded, voice low, "he's keeping cover. We need to draw him out." To the other man, John said, "You seem to be forgetting that I'm a soldier, above all things. I never wander too far without a spare clip. Learned that lesson quickly. Besides, two-on-two doesn't frighten me."

"Oh yes, your companion. Who is he, pray tell?"

"None of your concern," John bristled, and Sherlock smiled. That was new. He'd never had anyone take such a defensive tone in his honor before.

"I don't care if you're inverted, Watson," the man laughed. "I'm not the one who made the act illegal."

This was all becoming rather tedious for Sherlock's tastes. There was certainly a solution to their problem that didn't involve banter and  _waiting_ when Sherlock wanted to  _move_. Something like-

"Ah," he gasped. "John."

John shook his head. "Not now."

"John."

"Damn it, Sherlock," John hissed, "I said not now."

That was  _very_ new. Sherlock wasn't a favorite at court, but no one ever outwardly spoke to him like  _that_. He found he rather liked it. "I have a plan," he said, assuming that would set John straight.

"So do I, and it involves you being quiet. Shush."

No, that didn't quite work as expected. Time to take matters into his own hands, then. A steeling breath, and then Sherlock reached over snatched the gun from John's hand. "What-?" John started to ask, but Sherlock cut him off with a random shot towards the ceiling. Dust and rubble clattered down, the sound bouncing around the open space wildly. Perfect. Using the distraction to their advantage, Sherlock pulled John away towards the tracks and leapt down, tugging the captain down after him. He landed tidily; John, not so much. Still, he managed to get to his feet quickly enough and one more shot from Sherlock guarded the sounds of their footsteps as Sherlock dragged John away into the dark. There was a great deal of commotion behind them, but Sherlock wasn't concerned. He knew the Underground better than anyone, of that he was certain. They'd lose them quickly.

"Are we," John panted, tripping along clumsily in order to keep up with Sherlock's stride, "running from a fight?"

"Essentially," Sherlock admitted. "But you were lying about the ammunition. And he was lying about the number of men in the room."

"Oh?"

"Mm. I counted at least twenty," Sherlock said, casting around in the dark. Left, yes, and then they could take the makeshift tunnel out to the street, the light-shuttle back to the palace, scale the wall, through the shrubs, hatch to the basement-

"Sherlock?"

He paused and swiveled, dropping his gaze to John's upturned face. "Yes?"

"Are you all right? You're muttering to yourself like a madman." John was smiling, but his eyes were concerned.

"Fine, yes." Too stuffy; not believable. Sherlock cleared his throat. "I was planning our route."

"Ah." John nodded, shifted his feet. "Well, plan away. Where are we headed?"

"The palace," Sherlock said slowly. Hadn't that been obvious?

"Oh, right." Was it Sherlock's imagination or did the man look disappointed? "Well, lead the way."

x

Aside from the light-shuttle (which always made Sherlock a little dizzy) the trip home was extremely enjoyable. John was good company; unlike the skull, John seemed to find Sherlock's sense of humor more than tolerable (something about the skull's macabre grin seemed to imply a mocking quality, in Sherlock's opinion), and his own jokes- while generally corny beyond belief- never failed to make Sherlock crack a smile. In truth they reached John's rooms entirely too soon for Sherlock's liking. He didn't want the night to end, not yet.

"It's nearly dawn. I suppose we'd better get ourselves to bed," John said, sounding as reluctant to part as Sherlock felt.

Emboldened by the events of the night and John's apparent hesitation, Sherlock suggested what he'd never thought he'd ask of anyone, male or female. "Come to my rooms," he said, his voice barely a whisper as he leaned in close. "Or let me into yours, I hardly care. A bed is a bed."

John actually laughed, which stung enough that Sherlock reeled backwards as though he'd been slapped. He might as well have been; the hurt was the same. "Oh no, I…" John shook his head and stepped forward, closing the space between them again and putting his hand on Sherlock's chest. "If only I could, Sherlock. If only it were that simple."

"Why isn't it?" Sherlock sniffed, though he knew full well that John was right.

"If we were caught," John said, smiling sadly, "you would be groused at by your imperious brother and possibly made into a scandal. I, on the other hand, would be hung. Or worse, shipped off to one of the Colonies. Please understand, I…" John swallowed roughly. "I have thought of little else since I laid eyes on you. But the risk is far too great."

Sherlock understood, but it didn't stop him from pouting. There weren't many times in his life that he could recall being denied something he wanted. "How can I be assured of your affections?" he asked, although the sentiment was now plain on John's face. "Perhaps you only speak this way to spare my feelings."

It was a silly little ploy, but it worked nicely. John darted a glance in either direction and then licked his lips and stretched up to press a kiss against Sherlock's gently parted mouth. It seemed John's company came with a billion new experiences; Sherlock had never before kissed anyone and he found that it was both awkward and pleasant, the feeling foreign but interesting, exciting. When John moved to pull away he followed, taking John's mouth captive with his own and pinning him squarely in place. Only when he was satisfied with his progression of skill did he relinquish John and open his eyes. The sight that greeted him made him grin: John was flushed and breathless, eyes wide and dark. "Is the risk still too great, captain?" Sherlock asked, smiling smugly.

John shook his head and chuckled. "See what I mean about you Holmes men? Never satisfied." He met Sherlock's eyes and dropped his voice carefully. "I can teach you to kiss in five minutes," he said, "but the rest requires rather more time, Your Highness. Time we don't have, not tonight."

"Pity," Sherlock said honestly. "Tomorrow night?"

"You're incorrigible," John laughed. "I'm afraid my willpower will be nothing compared to yours. But I hope my resolve extends past one day, at the very least. Good night, dear prince, and sweet dreams." John kissed Sherlock once more, a small sweet kiss that only made Sherlock want more, and then disappeared into his rooms, the door clanging shut behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

John leaned back against his closed door, his eyes closed and his breath heavy. He ran his hand down his face, feeling the dampness of his lips from where they'd met Sherlock's, and groaned. He'd kissed the prince. The prince! It was complete folly. He'd wanted to do more; thank the Gods he hadn't.

Moving over to the fire, John tugged off his boots and considered the evening. First the early escape away from the endless reporters and to his bed, then the horrific nightmare (dead men rising from the sea, all of them calling John's name, all of them dead at John's hands) and the frantic pacing through the palace to send the awful images away. Turning a corner and bumping into Sherlock (thinking, for one wild instant, that he'd come across the awakened corpse of the dead King) and then sneaking through London's belly. And that mess in the tunnel…

It troubled him. John was no coward and he hated to run from a fight, but Sherlock had been right: out-numbered and without ammo, John crippled (how he detested that thought) and Sherlock as green as John's beret…it would have been absolutely foolish to stay and fight, however much chagrin that gave him. That wasn't the part that troubled him; what troubled him was that the man had known his name.

That meeting in the tube station had been no accident. Was that why the Queen (and, it seemed, her son Mycroft) kept him locked in the palace day after miserable day? It was said that the Rebellion had been squashed entirely, but now John wasn't so sure. Were there Rebels still lingering in London, waiting to spill John's blood?

The thought should not have thrilled him, but it did.

And then there was the even more unsettling matter of his mutual attraction to Sherlock. It was dangerous. John had healed and killed in equal turns during the long seven years of war, but he had never put himself in such grave danger as he had tonight. If anyone found out, he would hang. If he was lucky. Bad enough that John was common-born and male. Worse yet was what they called Sherlock: the Virgin Prince. John never liked the nickname; he had pledged absolute loyalty to the Crown and he considered the royal family's monikers insulting (the King's had been okay- Grey Eyes- but his wife was known as Cora Cold-hearted and Prince Mycroft was often called the Iceman or the Prince of Frost). He never used them. Nevertheless, he knew what the names meant. Queen Coraline wasn't called "cold-hearted" for no reason, nor was Sherlock called "the Virgin" for any reason but truth. If John tainted him and anyone discovered as much, it would be a scandal to rival all previous scandals. Sherlock would be banished, possibly, sent away to the countryside and forgotten. But John? John would hang. If he was lucky.

If he wasn't lucky? John shuddered to think of it. The Colonies were wastelands, ruins left behind of the Lost World. To the west lay America, a land that had once been plentiful and now lay barren, broken, bled of its resources and left to waste. To the east, on the Continent, the world was blanketed with snow and ash, ash that was said to make a man bald and thin if breathed in. And to the South, blistering sun, disease, and endless desert. What else lay beyond, no one remembered. There were legends of untouched lands and bounties of fresh water, jungles thick with vegetation and wildlife, but they were merely legends. No one with any sense sought those places out. No one except the Crown. The Queen's Colonies were legendary, too, and terrifying. Tales of barbaric acts, ruthless cut-throats, savagery…John didn't frighten easily, but the thought of the Colonies made his heart quicken. He wasn't as young as he used to be, nor as healthy, and he had a reputation now. Would they accuse him of regicide in the Colonies? John knew most of the captured Rebels had been sent to those harsh wildernesses. Even in those lawless lands, John doubted his loyalty to the Crown would be readily forgiven. And unlike the simple danger of London, John felt no thrill at the thought of being alone, probably without possessions, and at the mercy of men he'd already faced in battle.

The fire died, but John didn't stir. He stared at the embers for a long time, watching the orange glow fade, and even as the light outside the window grew and the light in his hearth died, he made no move to go to bed.

x

Breakfast and a mid-morning nap made John feel less maudlin. Still, there was a tension around him that he couldn't brush away. So he handled it the only way he knew how: training.

John went down to the yard and stretched out his limbs. It was important to him that he regain full use of his shoulder, whatever the palace doctor had said. The scar tissue would impede some of his movement, yes, but it would stretch. He needed only work it out. He did some simple exercises, ran a few laps, fought one of the dummies they had set up for that very purpose. It was incredibly unsatisfying. A few of the gentlemen from court came out and watched him or did their own fighting; there was a great deal of swordplay, which John considered almost useless. If he was going to fight close-quarters, he wanted to be sure he could use his hands. There was nothing noble about throwing a punch, true, but there was nothing clever about taking a slash across the chest for the sake of nobility, either.

One of the fat old lords' sons came out and offered to spar with him, finally, and John happily accepted. He looked fit, the man, for all that he was nearly John's age and had undoubtedly never seen his own blood much less anyone else's. He had gone silver early, John could tell, but he was still spry and he fought well. After a good few rounds (and with the man having bested John at last, after several matches of collecting dirt on his arse) they leaned against a wall and drank water together. It was astounding to John that the palace had fresh water; he was still in the habit of gritting against the acrid, faintly salty taste of the recycled water he'd been given all his life. Water from the sea, stripped of its salt. Still tasted awful, though.

John was torn from his musings when the man spoke. "You know, we've been trying to grace you with a name. One of the sillier lords wanted to call you Lion-heart. One of the cruder ones thought Kingsblood would suit."

Crinkling his nose, John shook his head. "I think 'John' will suffice. And you?"

"Gregory," the man said, shaking John's hand like a commoner. "Son of Lord Lestrade."

"Lestrade?" John asked, eyebrow raised. The man in question was one of the worst John could think of: hawk-eyed and snake-sharp, with an imperious air that rivaled Prince Mycroft himself.

Gregory laughed. "Don't seem so surprised. I bear his likeness."

That was true; John could see it now. Still, he blurted, "Only in appearance," which made the lord's son laugh again.

"Let's hope that's true," Gregory said, smiling. He sighed and looked up at the sun, which had shifted high into the sky. "My father will flay me if I show up at luncheon caked in sweat and mud. And I certainly can't abide starving until supper. Until next time, Little John?"

"Little John?" John wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended.

Gregory nodded. "A hero from the Lost World, right? And you can't pretend it doesn't fit."

Grimacing, John lunged at him, and they tussled playfully for a few moments before Gregory managed to give John the slip. He put out his tongue as he jogged away, and John couldn't help but laugh.

John went back to the water jug and drew himself a long draught. He was drinking greedily when a low voice sounded in his ear and almost made him choke.

"You fight well," Sherlock said, and John leaned back. The young prince had appeared as though from smoke. "True, Lord Lestrade's son is as soft as pillow and twice as useless, but still."

Eyeing Sherlock, John allowed himself a small smile. "Do you know how to fight, Your Highness?"

Sherlock gave him a long, considering look. Eventually, he shrugged. "I'm good with a sword."

"Right, yes, and that must come in handy on your nightly excursions," John scoffed, his voice hushed. "Tell me, where were you hiding your sword last night?"

"As I recall," Sherlock drawled, a glimmer of humor in his strange silvery eyes, "I offered to show it to you and you rejected me out of hand."

John spluttered out a laugh. "Not really what I meant, dove." He shook his head. There was no use playing cold with Sherlock; the man fit him as perfectly as a tailored glove. Despite himself, John melted. "How are you with hand-to-hand?"

"Barely adequate," Sherlock said honestly. "No one will teach me properly. But you can, and I know you will."

"Is that a command, my prince?" John grinned.

Sherlock gave John crooked smile. "If you'd prefer it, then yes. Teach me, Captain Watson. I command it."


	6. Chapter 6

The next two weeks were the best of Sherlock's life.

He and John fought out in the yard during the day and snuck out into the city at night, both of them cloaked and careful, Sherlock with his sword and John with his gun. At the palace, John was a dear friend and a playful sort, but out in London…Sherlock could almost imagine them lovers. He'd stolen four more kisses and John always called him "dove". It was very strange, but it was worlds better than whinging to his skull all day and sneaking about alone at night. John was Sherlock's perfect complement; when Sherlock was being silly or foolish, John was as placid and cool as still water, and when Sherlock was in a dark mood, cursing the world for all its hateful stupidity, John was funny and sweet and impossible to hate. Sherlock despised the singers that pranced around at feasts and parties, bellowing about love from over their harps or guitars, but sometimes when he practiced his violin he thought of John, and he decided that must mean something.

Of course, their sunny blue sky held more than one raincloud. Mycroft hadn't voiced his disapproval of their relationship yet but Sherlock was sure it was only a matter of time. No doubt he disliked the idea of his young brother corrupting his pawn. Mycroft was as predictable as he was loathsome. And there was the small matter of Irene…

But none of those things mattered during those two weeks, and at the end of them Sherlock found himself lying in cool, thick grass beneath a giant elm with John at his side. That made the ignoring easier, for now.

"So?" John asked. He was sitting up on his elbows, peeling an apple.

Sherlock contemplated the leaves above him as he spoke. "I've asked around. Almost everyone parroted my brother's story back to me, that the Rebellion was completely trampled underfoot, all the conspirators rounded up and either killed or exiled."

John took a crisp bite and chewed for a moment before speaking. "And the others?"

"There is a name." Sherlock sat up and looked down at John seriously. "Lord James Moriarty of Ireland. He was my father's greatest ally, provided him with thousands of men, gold, food, supplies, weapons. Mycroft claims he was killed in battle, the same day you took the Final Shot. There are some who seem to think otherwise."

"Oh?" John lay back in the grass, the apple falling from his slackened fingertips. "You think he's leading another rebellion?"

"Perhaps. He will have lost his wealth, of course, and his title." Sherlock thought on that for a moment. What could the man hope to accomplish? Without money or power, how could he possibly hope to bring down the house of Holmes? Ah. "It's possible," Sherlock said slowly, "that he desires nothing more complex than revenge. It's said he loved my father as a brother. While a man of good sense would realize that my brother is entirely at fault for my father's death, a heartbroken man might settle for the one who carried out the act."

"Me," John said softly. He didn't look worried, just curious. "You think he hopes to kill me."

Sherlock nodded. "There's more, though. Our Moriarty has a friend. A Colonel Sebastian Moran. Supposedly Moran was a career soldier, something of a hardened man."

"Is that how you feel about career soldiers?" John teased.

Sherlock nudged him with his foot and went on. "Supposedly Moran has conveniently disappeared as well. He and Moriarty were thick as thieves, both before the war and during it, and all accounts suggest that if the man is still alive he's at Moriarty's side."

"Should we be worried about the great Colonel Moran?" John asked, daring to toy with Sherlock's ankle under the hem of his trousers.

Sherlock shrugged, not letting his face betray what even that small caress was doing to him. "He's a crack shot," he said, his tone even.

John laughed. "As am I."

"Yes, but he's actively hunting you, or so we can assume," Sherlock frowned.

Suddenly, John sat up and took Sherlock's shoulders in his hands, his blue eyes bright and fierce. "By the gods, Sherlock, you genius!"

Sherlock leaned back a little, wary. "What?"

"If Moriarty and Moran are alive, they're traitors to the Crown," John grinned. "I took an oath to protect the realm. If they can hunt  _me_ , I see no reason why I can't do the same to them."

Groaning, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Vigilante crime-fighting is really not our area, John, and aside from that I told you: the realm was never in any danger. Fabricated enemies in a fabricated war-"

"Who took fabricated blood from my fabricated friends, is that it?" John spat. He shook his head. "No, let's not fight about this again. You and I will never see it the same way."

"Yes," Sherlock said, unable to stop himself, "because I see the truth and you see whatever lies comfort you best." Sherlock couldn't think of another time he'd spoken and regretted his words, much less so immediately. As soon as they were out of his mouth he knew he'd made a mistake. And yet even so some small, angry voice in his head was crying:  _I'm right, though! Ignorance only holds value for babes and fools._ His internal battle of wills apparently did not show on his face; John took one long look at him, cursed, and climbed to his feet.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, but he didn't turn back as he walked away.

x

They made up when the palace was far behind them, surrounded by darkness and the thick scent of salt and chemicals from the water decontamination facility they were exploring. Honestly, Sherlock had been surprised by John's appearance at his side as he snuck out of the palace, and even more surprised by his surly silence as they walked (or ran, or climbed, or leapt…whatever was called for at the time, really). He found himself chattering mindlessly in some sorry attempt to make things less awkward.

"They had this technology in the Lost World," he was saying, "but it was very expensive and impractical. It took New World scientists decades of refinement to-"

"Sherlock?" John said, giving him a strange look. "Shut up." And then he kissed him, and all the tension flooded out of Sherlock instantaneously.

There was something new about this kiss, something heated and thrilling that sent a little shiver down Sherlock's spine. John backed him up against a wall and pressed him to it, one knee parting his legs. He could feel John's breath, warm and tickling, against his lips as John sighed and pressed them close, his hands on Sherlock's, holding him still against the wall. "John," he breathed, shifting restlessly. His groin made blessed contact with John's thigh and he gasped. "I want you."

"I thought I told you to shut up," John grunted, without malice. He sucked and kissed Sherlock's neck between words. "You don't listen very well, Your Highness."

"No," Sherlock sighed, his eyes falling closed. There were so many new sensations, so much more he wanted. The water-decon plant wasn't the most romantic setting in the world, but Sherlock hardly cared. "No, I don't. John, I want you. Now."

John hummed against his throat. "Demanding little bugger," he whispered, which wasn't a yes or a no. He undid the top button of Sherlock's bespoke shirt, though, and kissed the newly revealed skin. Three times he did this, moving with agonizing patience, and his fingers were on the fourth button when-

_Crack!_

Sherlock swore in a manner very unbecoming of royalty and let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. "Of all the times to be shot at," he grumbled, peering into the darkness. John chuckled softly and drew his gun, switching the safety off.

"Shall we, my prince?" John asked, his voice still rough from what they'd been doing, and Sherlock almost trembled with the need to kill their assailant and quickly, before John came to his senses and changed his mind.

x

In fact there were four men, none of them particularly difficult to take down (although the big man with the long, thick beard had required them to work as a pair), and after they'd been slain John and Sherlock searched their bodies carefully.

"Nothing," John said, sounding a touch frustrated. "Three coppers, a pouch of tobacco, and a ticket-stub from a whorehouse circus. Seriously? I didn't even think they sold  _actual_ tickets for those."

Sherlock laughed. He'd been to a whores' circus once, in disguise naturally. Didn't keep the ticket-stub, though. "Nothing on these two, either," Sherlock said, "but they're Rebels, certainly."

"How can you tell?"

"These tattoos," Sherlock said, pointing at the crown tattoos on their ring fingers. Above each crown was a tiny dagger. "They signify allegiance to the 'true king', or the King of Daggers. Grey Eyes. My father." Sherlock thought of the dagger in his boot, the one that had been carried by one Holmes or another since the end of the Lost World, and quickly brushed the thought away. "But you're cloaked. I wonder how they recognized you."

"Hmm." John stood and looked around, his gun hanging at his side. "I wonder the same. And I wonder whether they know who  _you_ are." He looked suddenly stricken. "Or if they saw anything earlier."

"Dead men tell no tales," Sherlock said, but it was clear he wouldn't be getting anything more from John tonight. Damn. And Irene was coming in the morning. He hadn't told John yet and he didn't think the man would take it well. Nothing to be done for it, though. About any of it. Irene would come tomorrow, and everything would change.

"Let's not go back to the palace, yet," Sherlock said quickly, desperately prolonging the inevitable. The longer they were out the more time they would have and the later John would sleep. Maybe he'd miss her entirely until supper, or even the next day. Maybe they'd have one more night… "We ought to try and trace these men's footsteps awhile." A fool's errand, but what were they, if not a couple of fools?

"All right," John, the poor fool, agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight warmed John's face as he drifted into wakefulness. It was late, much later than the old soldier was used to waking, and he let himself enjoy the soft comfort of his bed and the dreamy veil of lingering sleepiness for only a moment before shoving out from underneath the blankets and dressing hurriedly. He'd been offered valets and serving-girls to bring him breakfast in bed, dress him, bathe him…but the thought of it left a sour taste in John's mouth. He wasn't so feeble as all that; as long as John could stand and move his arms, he would continue to dress and bathe himself.

It was nearly half noon when John finally emerged from his rooms, and the sight in the corridor brought him to an abrupt stop. It seemed there was a caravan of strong men in green-and-black costume milling about the halls, all of them laden with crates or baskets. A young woman in black lace skittered through the crowd, tutting and chastening, pointing men this way and that. John blinked at the crowd and pushed through it towards the dining hall, his hunger not forgotten in his curiosity.

The hall was crowded, too, but with a different sort. It seemed that the courtiers had multiplied overnight; John recognized only a third of the faces in the room, and he could barely think over the din of chatter and laughter. The royal family was nowhere to be seen, John noted, and their places were bare. But that was perhaps the only quiet corner of the room.

"Excuse me," John said to the serving girl who had offered him water or wine. Molly, he thought her name was. Pretty girl, but shy. "Do you know what's going on?"

Molly tittered cheerfully. "My lord," she said (a mistake she was always making), "Lady Irene Adler has arrived just this morning, and she brought her entire household with her. Exciting, isn't it?"

John licked his lips. "Adler? The name sounds familiar."

"As well it ought," Molly said, choosing water for him and pouring it in his cup. "Her father has been lord of the southernmost Colonies for near half a century." She smiled prettily. "Lady Adler herself has never set foot outside the Kingdom proper, of course. Never would do to freckle that milky skin of hers."

"I see," John said, although it wasn't entirely true. "And why has her ladyship come? And brought so many people with her?"

Molly looked very nearly scandalized. "Surely you jest, my lord," she gasped. "She's come for the wedding, of course."

John raised his eyebrow. "The wedding?"

But before Molly could answer, the trumpets were blown and the call of "please rise for Her Majesty the Queen" was given. The sound of a hundred chairs scraping against marble flooring rang through the hall as everyone clambered to their feet (some, already sodden despite the early hour, rising with a touch more difficulty than others).

Queen Coraline was as beautiful as she was ruthless, with quick green eyes and lush copper curls. She swept into the hall with her nose raised and her eyes narrowed, her dress rustling around her and her train dragging. The queen seemed to favor browns and golds, and today was no different. Her frock was russet, her jewelry bronze. But the set of her face and the small wrinkles that years of frosty glares had placed beside her eyes meant she could never be called  _pretty_. Cora inspired awe, not sonnets. On her arm was Prince Mycroft, dressed impeccably as ever in colors that accented his mother's. Side by side as they were, it was easy to see the family resemblance. Mycroft was his mother's son.

Walking several paces behind them was Sherlock. He was positively glowering, but he was still lovely. John was particularly fond of his suit, the black of his jacket and the deep, royal purple of his shirt. He wanted to see the white skin of Sherlock's chest as he unbuttoned that shirt, he realized, and the thought nearly made him blush. But the blush died away as his eyes moved down to the arm that was snaked around Sherlock's.

Pale skin and blood-red fingernails. John's eyes traveled upward, to a striking face with features that could cut and eyes that were just as sharp. The girl (for she was no older than twenty, surely) wore her black hair up in curls that framed her face, but there was nothing soft about the style. Her mouth was as red as her fingernails and her chin just as pointed, and as his eyes traveled down her waifish frame he thought that she could almost pass as Sherlock's sister, they were both so thin. She had small breasts and boyish hips, but there was something undeniably feminine about the way she swayed in towering high heels. John suspected she would loom over him at nearly the same height as Sherlock did. Were they related, then? It wouldn't surprise him. Maybe she was some cousin come to the palace for her wedding. That made sense, John supposed.

It seemed to take a lifetime for the small group to reach the royal table, and in that time it was as though everyone in the hall held their breath. At last they took their positions and Cora smiled, her eyes still cold as ice. "Sit," the queen commanded, and the hall filled with the sound of a hundred bottoms hitting a hundred seats.

John couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock and the girl beside him, the Adler girl (who else could she be, if not Adler?). What was she doing at the royal table? He watched those crimson fingernails trail their way across the back of Sherlock's hand and felt his chest tighten horribly.

"They make such a handsome set, don't they?" Molly, the serving girl, whispered in his ear. It seemed, in that instant, as though all the blood had left his body.

A handsome set.

A wedding.

_Oh._

x

If he had been taken away to the old, ruined Tower and questioned across the racks, John couldn't have said what else had transpired in that hall during luncheon. He didn't know what food he was served or if he ate any of it, nor was he sure who sat to his left or his right, or whether they'd spoken at all.

_Two weeks_ , he told himself, over and over, but it didn't matter.  _I've only known him two weeks._

As soon as he could escape without being indecorous, he did. At first he thought to go to his rooms and, what, sulk? But the thought of pacing that stuffy space for hours made his stomach churn. He might have gone down to the yard but there was no fight in him, strangely. He wanted to go  _out_ , away from any lying Holmes ( _When did he ever lie? You assumed too much; that's your own fault_ ) and away from the teeming crowds of endlessly loud people. But that wasn't really an option either. Even if he were free to stride out of the palace gates and into the streets (and he wasn't at all sure he was), he was in no position to defend himself and there were men in the city who would gladly catch him off-balance and take advantage.

Instead he went out to the great old elm that he and Sherlock favored, and he sat down in the cool dirt between two giant, twisting roots and considered.

John had been foolish, that much was obvious. What had he expected? Sherlock was a prince and John was a commoner with a few fancy medals and a suite of rooms in a palace he could barely stand. It wasn't like they ever could have been together, not really.

But…

Gods' breath, it still felt like a betrayal! Sherlock had used him, and to what ends? A way to pass the time? Amusement for a young man who easily grew bored? Maybe all this had been a punishment of sorts; the prince was a mirror of his father in looks, maybe he was the same in spirit. Yes, punishment made sense. Whether they'd been caught playing at lovers didn't matter. Either way John was ruined.

John put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. Where was his soldier's heart now? How could something as seemingly small as this-  _two weeks, only two weeks_ \- wound him more deeply than the bullet that had lodged itself in his left shoulder? It hurt desperately, even more so because Sherlock had known all the while. He knew he was to be married, and he knew when. Certainly he knew that John had been falling in l-

No.

No, it wouldn't do any good to think like that. It was just a stupid little thing, a summer romance transplanted to early autumn instead. Nothing more. And it had been dangerous, and foolish, and not in John's best interests at all. No, this was good. This was better than good. John was an honorable man; he wouldn't impede on someone's marriage vows. Tomorrow, when he was more himself, he would request an audience with Mycroft and he would ask the prince to send him somewhere where he could be of use. A veterans' hospital or something of that ilk. He'd go far away from London and forget all about the traitorous pain in his chest.  _Time heals all wounds,_  his mum used to say, but distance didn't hurt either. He'd go and he'd forget both sets of grey eyes: the ones that he'd bereaved of light and the ones that left him bereft.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's rooms were silent, still. He could hear the rush of people out in the hall but distantly, as though he were underwater and far beyond their reach.

He was lying on his back, sprawled over his favorite plush velvet couch, his palms pressed together and set against his chest. His eyes were closed, his breaths deep and even. It was a monk's pose, reminiscent of the way the old men in the abbeys lay when they wanted to meditate on the wills of the gods. But Sherlock wasn't thinking about the gods.

He was thinking about John.

The look on John's face when he had walked through the hall with Irene on his arm; the blank cast of his eyes throughout their meal; his sudden, wordless disappearance that had left his table-mates eyeing him curiously. To say John wasn't pleased about the newest developments in the palace would be a gross understatement. He wondered, in the far-off way he wondered things when he was in this state, if John would ever speak to him again.

A knock on the door drew him out of the sweet lull of contemplation. He said nothing, only glaring at the door before closing his eyes and settling back again. Another knock, harsher this time, and his eyes flew open.

"Leave me be," he growled. He might have thrown something if there was anything at hand, but there wasn't and he didn't much feel like getting up.

"Your Highness," called one of his servants. Sherlock had never bothered to learn their names; they weren't important. "It's Lady Irene to see you. Sh-she's quite insistent, I'm afraid."

Sherlock scowled at the ceiling. No amount of brooding silence would frighten away that wretched wench. "Send her in," he said, his tone as snotty as he could make it. He closed his eyes and resumed his pose, only the defiant twist of his lips revealing the disturbance of his inner quiet.

The door opened, closed. Irene's heels tap-tap-tapped across the room, muffled by the bearskin, heightened by the bare floor. She came to a pause about a foot from him and he could feel her stare roving his body.

"My darling betrothed," she purred, "is this any way to greet your sweet lady wife?"

"You're not my wife yet," he spat, "and I've no interest in greeting you. What do you want?"

"To talk, my love." Irene took a few steps forward and bent, taking Sherlock's hands and pulling him up into a sit. He glared at her, but didn't resist. Perhaps if he let her yammer for a moment or two she'd go away and leave him to his thoughts.

Or perhaps not. Irene looked as though she were gearing up for quite the obnoxious little chat. "My dear prince," she sighed, looking at Sherlock with keen eyes and a tiny smile. "People have been talking about you."

"People do little else," Sherlock said, despite himself.

Irene gave him a look that was half-playful, half-chiding. "Now, now, pet," she said, eyes glittering. "Wait 'til you hear what they have to say." She paced around the couch, tugging off the gloves she'd worn during her afternoon walk and tossing them over the armrest. When she was behind Sherlock, she trailed her fingers across the line of his shoulder and whispered, her mouth against his ear, "You see, a little birdie told me you've been spending a great deal of time with our nation's premier hero, Captain Watson." Irene stood, her fingers tightening on Sherlock's shoulder. "Too much time, perhaps. It's been suggested that he might have taken something that was promised to me." Suddenly, she wound her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and _yanked_ , making Sherlock wince. "That can't be true now, can it?"

Sherlock sat stock-still, not giving her the satisfaction of any sign of discomfort or struggle. "You know full well it isn't. Release me."

Sighing, Irene loosened her hold but didn't pull her fingers from his hair, letting her nails lightly scratch at his scalp. "You are my betrothed, Your Highness," she said, as though he needed reminding, "and I don't much relish the idea of someone else eating my pie before I've even gotten a taste. And you know what they say: the first bite is always the sweetest."

"If that's the case, my dear bride, then I should be furious," Sherlock said with a laugh. "From what I hear of you, there should be nothing left for me on our wedding night but crumbs. I think every man at court has had his fork in you at one point or another."

Irene's laugh was a tinkling, well-practiced affair. She pressed her cheek to his temple and let her voice drop in what Sherlock was sure was meant to be a seductive manner. "Every man, yes, and none too few ladies, let's be fair. More than once I've tasted my own cream on the lips of some sweet girl." She stood abruptly and swayed her way over to the fire, heels clicking. "But let's not pretend you care for such things, dear one. We both know better. I, however, care a great deal. You are mine." She looked at him, eyes burning fiercely. "You have been promised to me from infancy. Be sure the captain understands that, Sherlock darling, or I'll find a way to make him understand myself. And you won't much like that, hmm?"

"You forget yourself, Lady Irene," Sherlock said pleasantly. "I am your prince and thus your master. Don't ever allow yourself to think otherwise." He stood and crossed over to her, stopping only when she had to take a step back and lift her chin to meet his eyes. "But let me reassure you," he said, once he was sure she understood the unspoken threat that had just passed between them ( _leave John alone_   _or I will not be merciful_ ). "The good captain is as fond of this marriage as I am, but far more ignorant. He only learned the blessed news this morning."

"Oh," Irene said softly, understanding at once. "The poor man."

"He would despise your pity, as do I." Sherlock turned away so that she couldn't see his eyes. "Now, this topic is beginning to bore me. Let's speak of something more interesting, shall we? Moriarty. You know the name?"

Irene's face betrayed nothing at all, but Sherlock still knew, somehow, that she did. "Not sure," she said, toying with her cuff. "One of your father's men, yes? Dead now, I think."

"Don't play dumb, Irene. It doesn't suit."

She looked at Sherlock sharply then. "I could give you the same advice, Your Highness. Do you intend to follow in your father's footsteps? I'll remind you of how much good it did him. It's a brave and foolish man that puts himself against Mycroft Holmes and you, my dearest one, are neither brave nor a fool."

"Why not?" Sherlock said, goading her for no real reason except that it provided him some distraction. "I've already made an enemy of John; perhaps he'll kill me, as well."

Some of the tension left Irene's shoulders and she smirked at him. "You nearly had me worried, love. I'd beg you to save your imbecilic plots for  _after_ the wedding, but I never beg."

"Nor do I. So I'll simply demand it: tell me what you know of Moriarty."

For a moment Sherlock thought she would defy him. But then she sat down on the couch and bade him sat next to her, and as she stroked his chest and nuzzled his neck she whispered to him secret after secret after secret.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a slight stirring in the parlor. John sat up and squinted into the darkness, his hand immediately groping for his gun, but the sound had died away, replaced only by the soft snores of the man in the bed beside him. Still, John took up his gun. He  _had_ heard something, he was sure of that.

The open curtains let in a shaft of moonlight that fell across the bed, highlighting one long stripe of the younger Lestrade's skin, paler now in the darkness than it was in light. He slept on his stomach, silver hair mussed. John regarded him for a moment; should he wake him? Yes, better safe than sorry.

"Gregory," he hissed. The man slept on. John gave him a shake and whispered again, " _Gregory_."

"Hrrm?"

"Wake up. Get yourself dressed…and armed, if possible."

The lord's son sat up then, kind eyes wide and curious. "Are we in danger?"

"Don't know," John admitted quietly, slipping out of bed. "Stay here. Dress. Come if I call." He braced the gun and stalked forward slowly, leaving the relative safety of the bedroom for the oppressive darkness of his parlor. When he felt his eyes had adjusted well enough he moved on, sweeping the room carefully. But he found no one. He lowered his gun and turned to go back to bed-

-when he came face-to-face with Prince Sherlock, his pale eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. "Fuck!" he cried, the crude soldiers' swear leaving his lips of its own accord. "Gods' teeth, Sherlock! What are you doing in here?"

"I've come into some information I thought you might wish to hear," Sherlock said, his voice even and calm.

"Seems you've had rather a lot of that lately," John snapped, "although you've not always chosen to share. Please leave, Sherlock. Your Highness. Whatever news you have can wait 'til morning."

"Why?" Sherlock sniffed, looked around. "Who's here?" He paced a few feet towards the bedroom and stopped suddenly, whirling back to face John. "Lestrade?" Sherlock looked back at the bedroom and called out, "Lestrade? If you're here, come out."

John's face burned as Gregory emerged, half-dressed and sheepish, his grey locks chaotic. "Your Highness. I hope I find you well."

"Oh," was all Sherlock said. And then: "Leave us." John and Sherlock both watched Gregory awkwardly bow and slink out of the room, tugging on his expensive loafers as he went. When he was gone, Sherlock looked at John for a long moment and said, slowly, "I see."

John didn't speak. He didn't say that Gregory was fun and easy, that it meant nothing really, that sometimes a man needed someone new to warm his sheets in order to heal his heart. He didn't say any of that; he only met Sherlock's eyes in the darkness, his lips pressed together and his arms folded over his chest.

"Have you and he been at this the entire time, then?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John laughed unhappily. "No," he said truthfully, "but what difference would it have made if we were? You've been engaged to be married this whole time, haven't you?"

Sherlock's voice was as dark and steady as the Thames. "I don't love her."

"Again you persist in telling me things I don't want to hear," John said softly, shaking his head.

"And will you turn away from this truth as you have the others?"

John sighed and crossed the room, clicking on the light. He looked back at Sherlock, whose eyes had narrowed against the sudden brightness. "Is it the truth?"

"I've never lied to you," Sherlock said solemnly.

"No?" John sank down on to the uncomfortably soft sofa, perching on the edge so as to not get stuck. "If what you've said about your brother is true, it turns my stomach." He sighed and rubbed his chin, feeling the rough scratch of stubble against his palm. "It is true, isn't it? I'm not a fool, or if I am it's over you. I've seen with my own eyes the power Mycroft wields. He had the queen on his arm like a wife this afternoon."

Sherlock laughed and walked over to the couch, settling down beside John. He smelled like rich cologne and warm skin, but there was a hint of perfume that lingered on his shirt (the purple one still, maddeningly) that made John bristle. "Mycroft's wife has never been of any use to him, except to produce little heirs. He won't even let her raise the brats. He keeps her holed up in some awful mansion in Cardiff while the children occupy our old manor in Essex."

"Is that so?" John asked, horrified. "Does she ever see her children at all?"

"Oh, once in awhile. When he calls them to court to show them off." Sherlock sighed and leaned back, apparently unencumbered by the ridiculous softness of the sofa. "Don't feel bad for her, John. Not yet. As long as Mycroft lives, she'll be well kept."

"And when he dies?"

The smile Sherlock presented to John was anything but sweet. "She'll very likely find herself following in short order. Should my mother die, Mycroft would become king. But if he were to die, his wife Lysele would reign. If she remarried and produced children with her new husband, Mycroft's heirs would be passed over in favor of the new king's children. Mycroft would never allow such a thing, even in death."

John shook his head. The intrigues of royalty had never much interested him, but what Sherlock was saying left a hollow feeling in his guts. "Where would a man find such callousness?"

"In my mother's blood," Sherlock said. "My mother was born a Vernet. Do you know their family motto?" John shook his head, and Sherlock laughed softly. "Caring is not an advantage, those are the words borne upon the family crest. Believe me when I say that while Mycroft has my father's nose and name, he is a Vernet through and through."

"And you?" John asked, although he thought he already knew the answer.

Sherlock fixed him with a steely look. "I'm a Holmes," he said simply.

A shudder wended down John's spine. In that moment, Sherlock looked the very picture of his father. "I fear I've made a grave mistake," John whispered. "Sherlock, did I fight for the wrong side?"

Shrugging, Sherlock inspected his nails. "My father was no noble, kindly man himself. He did what he thought necessary, even when what was necessary was also cruel. And I told you, there was no winning this war." He smiled then, a shadow of his normal smile. "Maybe this news will cheer you: I've discovered some interesting things about our dear friend Moriarty."

"Oh?" The news didn't hearten him as it once would have, but John still found himself curious.

"Yes. And I think, if we devoted ourselves very thoroughly to the task, we could have him at our feet in a few days' time. Whether you think his fight was righteous or not now, he's still actively trying to kill you."

John lifted his eyebrow. "I thought that vigilante crime-fighting wasn't our area?"

"It's something to do," Sherlock said, not quite meeting John's eyes. "And all this talk of weddings bores me to tears." He looked up at John then, something like a plea in his grey eyes. "So? What do you say? We could start the hunt tomorrow night."

Thoughts of fleeing to the countryside, working in a stately hospital and sleeping all night through, danced through John's head. If he were smart he'd tell Sherlock to get the hell out of his rooms and starting packing at once. But John's grandfather had always said, "Boy, you've got more balls than brains," and John was inclined to agree. "All right," he said. "Tomorrow night, we'll start the hunt."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you guys know, I finished my story map for this fic! That means I have a proper, clear-cut plan for the remaining five chapters. Exciting, no?


	10. Chapter 10

The next day passed with infuriating slowness. Sherlock found himself being poked and prodded all morning by the tailor, who was fitting him for a new suit and wedding cloak. Fittings, in Sherlock's experience, were always tetchy affairs. He hated being touched by someone he barely knew, hated standing still and quiet for long moments, hated having his limbs manipulated here and there. The entirety of the thing made his skin itch.

Luncheon was no better. He, Irene, Mycroft, and Mummy were feasted in a small private hall, so that they could make judgments upon the catering and decide what would be served at the wedding. It was excruciatingly tedious. The cook brought out plate after plate of tiny servings of lamb and duck and roast pork and fatted calf, stewed vegetables, sweet juicy cuts of fruit, crusty bread, veined and crumbling cheese, and so many different types of cakes and pastries Sherlock simply ceased counting. Mummy nibbled delicately, and Irene ate with slow but obvious pleasure. Mycroft looked as though he'd been granted his dying wish. Sherlock, however, merely poked at whatever new confection was set in front of him and frowned.

There was a pleasant moment after luncheon, when Sherlock met with the royal musicians and discussed which pieces they would be playing during the ceremony and at the party afterward. Mummy had given him a list of approved music for the ceremony itself, but she'd said nothing of the party. Sherlock picked out the darkest pieces he could think of. War music, funereal themes that dragged their way through somber notes second by aching second. Solemn fugues; mournful sonatas. The musicians gave each other worried looks as he recited his preferences, but they noted them down all the same. No doubt they'd take the list to Mycroft for approval, but Sherlock didn't mind. At worst, he heaped upon his brother one more needless irritation. At best, he ensured that the "celebration" of his detested nuptials would be the depressing affair it was meant to be.

Then it was back to the tedium: another fitting, this time for the clothes he would be wearing during his and Irene's honeymoon holiday to the seaside. After that he was made to "rub elbows" with seemingly every idiotic buffoon the realm had to offer at a yet another party (this one thrown in honor of Irene's presence at court). The pantheon of grinning, stupid faces made the vein in Sherlock's forehead pulse dangerously. He kept scanning the room, hoping to catch sight of his little captain, but to no avail. John wasn't there.

And some dark voice seemed to whisper in his ear the longer John abstained from the party:  _Do you blame him? He's likely bedding Lord Lestrade's son this very moment._ The images his mind conjured (dusky, dreamlike, skin and mouths and fluttering eyelashes) made his stomach clench. Worse were the knowing glances Mycroft kept shooting at him, the subtle smirks and the contented sighs. When he could take it no longer, Sherlock dragged Mycroft away from the throngs of people by his elbow and tugged him into a secluded corner. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?" he demanded, his eyes blazing.

Mycroft smoothed the arm of his jacket with a little wrinkle of his nose. "I'm certain I don't know what you mean."

"I'm certain you do." Sherlock stepped closer, searching Mycroft's face. "You know something. Something to do with me. What is it?"

"Honestly, Sherlock," Mycroft said chidingly. "Your proclivity towards theatrics is exhausting." He considered his fingernails for a second. "Of course, were I the topic of all the castle gossip, no doubt I would be equally tiresome. One hears certain things, Sherlock, about you and Captain Watson."

"Boring," Sherlock declared, waving the rumors away with his thin fingers.

Mycroft shrugged. "Perhaps. However, I have it on good authority that not all such rumors are without merit."

Sherlock's mouth went dry. "Irrelevant," he managed, his cool countenance not quite enough to fool his brother. "John is an honorable man. Now that Irene is here..."

" _John_ ," sneered Mycroft. "Dear lord, will you listen to yourself? You sound like a love-besotted child. Thank the gods the captain himself proved easily distractable."

Everything inside Sherlock seemed to tense at once. "Elaborate. Now."

Mycroft laughed and swished his wine around in its glass. "I only meant that his tryst with the Lestrade boy should be considered fortuitous, brother mine. Don't let it upset you so. Especially not when there are so many other things to be concerned with right now, like whelping a little princeling with your new bride. Or keeping your hands clean of my affairs." He leaned in and dropped his voice. "I know what you and Watson are doing, this little man-hunt for Lord Moriarty. It stops tonight, or I will find yet another way to distract your common-born whore. Understood?"

"He had agreed to accompany me on my walk tonight," Sherlock said stiffly. "Nothing more."

For a long moment Mycroft watched his brother's face, his steely eyes narrowed. Then he pursed his lips and let out a huff of air. "You always were such a little fool, Sherlock," he sighed. "Carry on if you must, but don't say I didn't warn you. War is a dangerous game."

x

_Finally._  Sherlock greeted the falling darkness with closed eyes and a thudding heart. His nerves were high, the highest they'd been since he and John had first met. He'd even taken a draught of soothing poppy juice that afternoon. He hadn't tasted a drop of the stuff in months. But John was bedding Lestrade and Mycroft was watching everything-  _everything_ \- and his wedding was in days and the buzzing in his head was growing louder and louder and louder until it drowned out all coherent thought and left Sherlock exhausted and angry.

The poppy juice had lent things a sweet quality, though. Sherlock felt calm, swept clean. He could face anything so long as his mind wasn't buzzing like a disturbed beehive, he was sure of that.

Checking his attire in the mirror, Sherlock let his gaze travel up to his face. He looked thin, even thinner perhaps than usual, and his skin was especially pale. Two anti-moons, blue-black and hollow, graced the skin beneath his eyes. His irises were thin, his pupils wide.  _Not a prince_ , he thought.  _A corpse._  He swept his hand down the front of his shirt, let out a breath, and turned to find his cloak.

X

John met him in the anterior garden, standing in his usual place, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders shrugged. He looked so small, the little captain, and Sherlock was struck with the urge to take him away from Mycroft's clutches and the wretched palace and all that idiotic drivel that constituted life at court. He wanted to hoard John for himself, but more importantly he wanted to preserve the things that made John indubitably _good_. Already Sherlock could see the effects of court and of Sherlock's own wretchedness corrupting John, diluting him, wearing him away. But where could they possibly go? Neither man was free.

Eventually John noticed Sherlock watching him, the little catch of breath in his throat betraying his surprise. "Your Highness," he said, tipping slightly at the waist.

Something cold settled in Sherlock's stomach. "Captain."

John gave him half a smile and gestured towards the garden wall. "Shall we?"

"Tonight," Sherlock said, holding out his arm, "I thought we'd exit from the front gates."

Quirking his eyebrow, John's smile blossomed. "The front gates, eh?" He shook his head, chuckling, and looped his arm through Sherlock's. "As you wish."

 


	11. Chapter 11

There was a strained silence between them as John and Sherlock walked down a quiet, half-lit London street. John knew perfectly well that he could hardly rely on Sherlock to be companionable at the best of times, so he broke the silence himself. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock looked up at him as though he'd been shaken from a dream. Then he turned his eyes back to the road and sniffed, "A source suggested I might be able to find a warehouse full of Moriarty's supplies at a certain location. That's where we're going."

The thought of Sherlock's "source" made John bristle- who else could it be, if not Irene?- but he hugged his arms around his chest and kept his mouth firmly closed. He would play nicely with Sherlock until Moriarty had been found and brought to justice, and then he was free to be as bitter as he pleased.

They walked on in silence for a long time, John having lost his urge to make small-talk. Eventually Sherlock led him down a drawn-out, sloping lane. The asphalt had been broken down and torn away long away for other uses and the ground beneath their feet with largely mud and stone. Most of the houses along the way had been flattened and picked through long ago, when the Old World fell and the New World rose from its ashes. A few skeletons remained though, the burnt shells looming at them through the darkness. John didn't frighten easily, but he found himself eyeing those old ruined houses warily, has hand tightening on his gun and his eyes carefully searching.

"Nearly there," Sherlock whispered. It seemed appropriate to whisper; this broken part of London didn't lend itself to booming voices.

John peered into the distance, seeing nothing but far-off shadows. "How can you tell?"

"Tyre marks," replied Sherlock, his voice soft. "There, and there."

"Those could be from anyone."

"Could be, but they're not," he answered mysteriously. He gestured for John to follow and continued down the path.

Eventually a shape ahead made itself distinct from the otherwise unending darkness: a building, squat and low, the windows boarded up and tagged with indecipherable graffiti. John glared at the building, his muscles tensing. He felt the way he often felt before battle, tense but eager, his senses heightened. Sherlock nudged him. "The warehouse."

"Are we going in?" he whispered, slipping his gun from his pocket and switching the safety off.

Sherlock smiled wanly. "Unless you'd prefer to linger outside until daybreak, yes." He strode up to the building, his eyes forward as though he implicitly trusted John to make sure it was safe. There was a thick chain hanging around the warehouse's big double doors, and Sherlock lifted it, regarding the heavy lock with cool interest. "I can pick this," he said off-handedly. He tugged a torch from his pocket and passed it to John, who flicked it on and pointed it at the lock, transferring his gun back to his pocket with a sigh.

Sherlock's fingers were steady as he worked at the lock. Twice he let out a huff of exasperation, and once his tools- which he kept in a little velvet fold of fabric in his breast pocket- slipped, making him grit his teeth, but after a few moments the lock clicked open, and his expression brightened.

"Amazing," John breathed, his breath forming a small cloud of mist between them.

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow. "You think so?"

John nodded. "Absolutely." He slipped the chain off the door-handles and set it gently on the ground, careful not to let it clank too much. Then he withdrew his gun once more, took a deep breath, and shouldered the door open.

It was even darker inside without moon- or starlight to cast whatever dim outlines it may. John held Sherlock back and waited for his eyes to adjust. The red crosses made themselves clear first, and John would've known those crosses anywhere. After all, he'd worn one on his shoulder for years. "What...?"

"What?" Sherlock budged his way inside. "What is it? Weaponry?"

John shook his head slowly and rubbed his eyes as though he could wipe away what he was seeing. "No," he said, his voice low. "No. They're medical supplies. Stolen from the military." His heart was beating dangerously fast. Supplies had always been an issue during the war. John had lost more patients than he could count to infections that could've been prevented if he'd only had access to the right tools. And to discover that this bastard Moriarty had been siphoning them off...

"John."

The ex-captain looked up into Sherlock's concerned eyes. He realized he was breathing heavy, and that his hands were balled into fists. "Sorry," he mumbled, forcibly loosing his fingers. "It's just..."

Sherlock nodded. He'd taken the torch back from John at some point, and now he swiveled it around the room. "It's personal now," he said, his voice loud enough that it echoed around the warehouse. "I understand."

Every movement of the torch revealed another stab of betrayal. Here were boxes and boxes of army rations; there were duffels brimming with hefty military-issue coats. A crate overflowed with boots, all of them in various states of wear and tear, some of them still glistening with blood. John lifted one and looked at it for a long time, a lump in his throat and enough adrenaline in his system that his fingers shook with it. Moriarty's men had picked those boots of John's fallen comrades. They'd stripped the bodies of soldiers, scavenged them for loot. It made him sick.

"I'm going to enjoy killing him," John said coldly, surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

Sherlock regarded him solemnly for a moment, then perked up, his eyes drifting to the door. "It sounds as though you'll be getting your chance soon, Captain Watson." He grabbed John's hand and pulled him outside, tugging John into a row of tall bushes, dashed out again and did up the lock, then tumbled into the bushes himself.

"What?" John hissed, but Sherlock shook his head. The answer revealed itself soon enough anyway, in the form of clicking hooves and creaking wheels. In moments a horse and buggy clattered its way up the lane, stopping just before the warehouse, the horse whinnying. The driver let out a long yawn and climbed down slowly, scratching his arse as he ambled towards the door. He tugged a key loose from his shirt and slipped the tie that held it from around his neck, then unlocked the doors and swung them open. Still yawning, he began bumbling around inside.

John lifted his gun and steadied it, setting his sights on the door.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" Sherlock growled, snatching his gun away. They fumbled over it until John found himself pressed into the dirt, his wrists restrained with just one of Sherlock's hands. "If we follow the buggy it will, in all likelihood, lead us to Moriarty. If we kill the driver, it won't. Do you understand?"

Of course John understood. It didn't mean he liked it. "Give me my gun," he snarled as menacingly as he could manage.

"Don't be ridiculous."

They tussled anew, with similar results. In the end John breathlessly agreed that perhaps Sherlock's plan was wisest, and they slunk out when the driver wasn't looking, sliding under the buggy and tucking themselves up against it. It was easier for Sherlock, whose height allowed him to tuck his feet into one axle and still grip the other with his hands, but John had to loop his arms around Sherlock's waist to keep himself from dragging on the ground. He worried, momentarily, about the proximity...but as soon as the buggy began moving he realized that being so close to Sherlock was the least of his worries. Having his bum occasionally collide painfully with the earth and his forehead with the underside of the buggy kept the ride incredibly unromantic. When at last the cursed vehicle stopped, he let himself droop to the ground with a relieved sigh.

"East End," said Sherlock quietly, lowering himself to the ground beside John.

It took John a moment to put the statement in context. "Why are we in the East End?" It made no sense. John had grown up in the East End; his mother lived there still. It was just a poor, residential neighborhood. Certainly not the sort of place a criminal overlord would do business.

Voices began to carry up and down the street, the sound of a thousand people murmuring at once. Babies wailed, children laughed and shouted. And they were all moving towards the buggy.

"All right, all right," the driver cried, heaving himself up and pushing his way through the sudden throng of people. "Nice and orderly, now, everyone! I want a tidy queue, understand, or nobody's gettin' nothing from me."

Astoundingly, the people obeyed. John and Sherlock wriggled out from under the buggy practically unseen, so focused was everyone on following the driver's orders. They slipped off to an alley entrance and watched.

What John saw broke his heart. "I need penicillin," said the woman at the front of the queue, settling her baby on her hip. "And a winter coat for my husband." The driver dug through the piles in the back of the buggy and passed her the items, then waved her along.

"A week's rations, please," said the next person in line, a young boy of ten or eleven. "Mummy's taken ill, so she sent me in her place."

The driver folded his arms over his chest. "You've a note, young man?"

Nodding eagerly, the boy drew a filthy sheet of paper from his pocket and passed it to the driver for inspection. The driver read it over, licked his lips, and went back for the rations.

Each transaction went much the same. Women and children, with dirty faces and rags for clothing, politely asked the driver for something they needed- soap, bandages, powdered milk, shoes that weren't worn thin- and the driver tiredly retrieved it for them. No money was exchanged. And when the buggy was emptied, nearly an hour after it had arrived, the driver asked the people for suggestions on what to bring next time. They shouted out answers- "Combs!" "Toothbrushes!" "Something sweet, for the children!"- and the driver took notes in a little moleskin book, his tongue in his cheek and the stub of a pencil between his calloused fingers. Then he closed up the book, climbed up into his seat, yanked back the reins, and clip-clopped off into the greying morning.

The people dispersed, lugging their new belongings back to their homes. John watched them until the street was empty and silent, then sunk to the ground and pressed his back against the alley wall, his face in his hands.

"John?" Sherlock knelt down beside him and touched his wrist.

"I don't understand." The world seemed to be spinning. "Sherlock,  _I don't understand_. Why? Why would Moriarty be passing out rations and medicine?"

For a long time, Sherlock was silent. Then he sat down beside John and spoke in a quiet, even voice. "Before Mycroft's war, Lord Moriarty once petitioned to my father about the issues of poverty. 'In order for us all to prosper,' he said, 'there must be a middle class.' He'd read it in a book, apparently. Poverty, he said, affected us all, whether we knew it or not. My father didn't care, not at first- the poor were poor and the rich were rich, and since he'd fallen in with the rich what did it matter? But slowly, over time, Moriarty's ideals began to interest him. Conveniently enough, my mother then decided to divorce my father and declare herself sovereign, and the civil war began. The issue, as it were, was never addressed."

John swallowed hard. "So, what? Moriarty is the poor man's hero?"

Laughing, Sherlock shook his head. "I wouldn't go that far, John. I've met Moriarty enough times that I can say, with reasonable certainty, that he cares very little about poverty in actuality. But he enjoys chaos. He likes to go against the grain, so to speak. With the ruling class owning ninety percent of the nation's wealth, it was a very unpopular opinion indeed to side with the poor. Who better to do it, then, than Lord Moriarty?"

"Gods above," John muttered, rubbing at the stubble on his cheeks. The damned nobles and their intrigue turned his stomach. Was nothing simple? Were there no clear lines, no obvious sides? How could he chose between light and darkness when they looked so similar?

"Dawn is coming," Sherlock said, sliding to his feet. He held out his hands to John. "We need to head back."

John took Sherlock's hands and followed him carelessly, too sick with doubt to do anything more.


End file.
